At a Time Like This

A few days ago, I went for a walk at the lake — one of my favorite places to breathe again. I’ve walked that path for years, and there’s an older woman I always see out there. We’ve never spoken, but every time we pass each other, she gives me the warmest smile and the smallest wave. It’s become this quiet ritual between us — two strangers acknowledging each other’s existence in a world that often feels disconnected.

This time, I was sitting under a tree, letting the sun warm my face for a moment. And she walked over. She didn’t rush. She didn’t intrude. She just approached with that same gentle presence she always carries.

She said, “Thank you for always saying hi to me. It’s so rare — most people just walk on by.” I felt something in me soften. I told her, “Of course. It makes my day to see you out here.”

I don’t normally hug strangers. But she leaned in, and I hugged her back. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t forced. It was two humans meeting in the middle of a world that feels heavy, offering each other a moment of warmth. Then we parted ways, both of us carrying something a little lighter.

As I watched her walk away, I realized something: this is what people are craving right now — light, connection, humanity.

Because lately, I’ve had so many people reaching out for help. Every week, it feels like there’s another headline that shakes people — another tragedy, another conflict, another moment that makes the ground feel unsteady. I’m not even talking about politics. I’m talking about the human cost. The fear. The uncertainty. The way people are walking around with their shoulders tight and their hearts tired.

Just last week, after one of those heartbreaking news stories that seemed to ripple across every timeline and conversation, someone messaged me and said, “I don’t know how to stay hopeful anymore.” And I felt that. Not because I’ve lost hope, but because I understand how heavy everything feels right now. People aren’t just overwhelmed — they’re spiritually exhausted.

In moments like this, I keep returning to the wisdom of Marianne Williamson.

Marianne is a spiritual teacher and author whose work has shaped the modern conversation around healing, courage, and inner transformation. Her book A Return to Love became a touchstone because it put language to something so many of us feel but rarely say out loud: fear is something we learn, but love is something we are born with. That truth alone reframes everything. It reminds us that our light isn’t something we have to manufacture — it’s something we have to stop hiding.

It’s in that same book that she wrote the line so many people know:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.”

And I think that truth is more relevant now than ever.

Because when the world feels dark, it’s not the darkness that scares us most. It’s the responsibility of being a light.

Hope feels vulnerable. Compassion feels risky. Softness feels unsafe. And shining — really shining — feels like too much to ask when everyone is struggling.

But Marianne goes on to say something that feels like a direct message to this moment: “Your playing small does not serve the world.”

And she’s right.

People don’t need more noise. They don’t need more outrage. They don’t need more fear.

They need light. They need steadiness. They need reminders of what’s still good, still possible, still sacred.

And here’s the part we don’t talk about enough: Light isn’t always loud.  Sometimes it’s the quietest thing in the room.

Your light is the way you speak gently when others are sharp. The way you choose integrity when shortcuts would be easier. The way you stay soft without collapsing. The way you keep showing up — not perfectly, but wholeheartedly.

Your light isn’t about being cheerful. It isn’t about being perfect. It isn’t about pretending you’re not tired.

Your light is your presence. Your compassion. Your clarity. Your willingness to stay open when it would be easier to shut down.

And yes — there is responsibility in that.

Because someone out there is watching how you move through this moment. Someone is drawing strength from your steadiness. Someone is remembering what hope feels like because you didn’t dim yours.

You don’t have to fix the world. You don’t have to carry everyone. You don’t have to be radiant every day.

But you can be a small, steady flame in a time when people are cold.

And that matters more than you know.

May you stop apologizing for the places you shine. May you remember that your light is not for decoration — it’s for direction. And may you never forget that in a world like this, hope is a form of leadership.

And maybe — just maybe — it starts with something as simple as saying hi to a stranger at the lake. Because you never know whose day you’re brightening, or how far that small light might travel.